


bring me back to me (will you bring me back unestranged?)

by moonbeatblues



Series: refuge [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Ouch, hey did y'all notice, i'm gonna have to delete that tag w the next chapter but anyway, interesante, is followed up with yasha stabbing obann in the Back, that talks clip. y'all know the one., the parallel of molly and beau getting stabbed in the chest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21652024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonbeatblues/pseuds/moonbeatblues
Summary: It’s kind of amazing, how they never learned to interact properly. Beau sucks in a sharp breath like she’s gonna say something, Yasha looks up from her hands, and Caduceus pokes his head right between the two of them to ask, would Yasha like some tea?(She would.)
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett & Mollymauk Tealeaf, Beauregard Lionett/Yasha, Jester Lavorre/Beauregard Lionett, Jester Lavorre/Beauregard Lionett/Yasha, Jester Lavorre/Yasha, Mollymauk Tealeaf & Yasha
Series: refuge [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560958
Comments: 4
Kudos: 155





	bring me back to me (will you bring me back unestranged?)

**Author's Note:**

> will i ever be done writing about yasha and coming home? probably not

Molly and Beau start to become the same person, in her dreams.

Beau’s body breaks under the drive of the Skingorger. Had it always been a glaive? Her hands come away bloody from rubbing at her eyes. It was always her favorite trick of Beau’s— _Molly’s_ , but not enough, this time.

Beau spits in her face, eyes glassy and open, and Molly’s laugh spills from her throat.

“Yasha,” Molly says with Beau’s mouth, “Yasha,” and she wakes up to almost the same thing, Beau watching her with glassy eyes, hands reaching out to push at her shoulders.

She throws up.

—

Jester has cold hands.

A little uncanny, usually, but appreciated now she’s rubbing circles into Yasha’s back, humming something.

It’s guilt, really, that’s successfully lingering— Obann kicked one of the Hand’s dogs once when it couldn’t pick up a scent, and the sound Beau made was so similar it was almost funny. Almost, if Yasha hadn’t been vomiting.

That is to say, everyone is awake now.

It’s an ungodly hour, but Caduceus is making tea, the last nail in the coffin for their night’s rest. Caleb and Fjord are across the room, talking in low, concerned voices and glancing over every so often, Nott keeps jumping to look out the chamber window, scowling, and Jester’s humming what sounds suspiciously like _the Ruby of the Sea is the best lay ever_ and asking if Yasha’s okay about every thirty seconds.

Beau is doing a piss-poor job of not looking Yasha in the eyes, sitting cross-legged and hunched forward, chin propped on one fist. The curling edges of the tattoo are visible on the sides of her neck, and Yasha’s grip on where Beau and Molly separate into two beings is tenuous enough, still, that she can’t bring herself to look at it.

It’s kind of amazing, how they never learned to interact properly. Beau sucks in a sharp breath like she’s gonna say something, Yasha looks up from her hands, and Caduceus pokes his head right between the two of them to ask _would Yasha like some tea?_

(She would.)

—

“Hey.”

Beau drops alongside her on the almost-cliff edge, just a little bluff overlooking the water.

“Hey.”

It’s getting dark fast— some aspects of winter even Nicodranas can’t avoid— but it’s a short walk back, and the Chateau’s back porch light is still on.

It feels like a reprise they can’t quite afford, coming here for a few days, but one needed all the same. It’s already been worth it a hundred times over since Jester sank into her mother’s arms in her dressing room, everyone else crowded together awkwardly in the doorway like always.

(More things Yasha missed— Jester reuniting with her father. Properly, this time.

Marion has a presence that reaches every corner of the Chateau, intoxicating, elegant, but she cries just like Jester does, pressing her shaky fingers to her open mouth, and it’s so endearing it almost hurts.)

“Look, I don’t know how to stop you from beating yourself up about it, but you don’t need to.”

Yasha says nothing. The sun’s reflection wobbles, dizzy with the rolling pour of low tide onto the sand.

“We all know it wasn’t you, okay? And I’d have taken a hundred more hits like that if we still got you back. We all would have.”

But it _was_ her, is the thing. It was, and she keeps fucking _dreaming_ about it, about the look in Beau’s eyes, about what if that was the look in Molly’s eyes that morning.

She hadn’t even been afraid. She hadn’t, and she should’ve been, and gods _dammit_ , if it had been any worse Yasha would have done it, listened to that desperate prickling in the back of her mind all those weeks. The plan she’d made for if they realize they shouldn’t come after her and if she gets a second, just a _second_ of control.

In her dreams she just watches Yasha, looks down at the blade— sometimes sword, sometimes glaive— and back up at her heavily, hazy and somewhere dangerously between accusatory and curious.

She breathes, ribs opening calmly, impossibly on either side of the sword/glaive, and Yasha wakes up with her blood thrumming like Jester’s pulsed an enhance through it.

“Hey,” Beau says again, and her gaze is like a shot from Nott’s crossbow between the eyes. Smooth, painful, effortless.

Like she knows.

She reaches for Yasha’s hand and takes it in both of hers, pressing it between her palms and then folding it closed.

“Jes and I are sleeping in her room again tonight. You should come by, if you want to.”

She thinks about Jester staying up that first night, trying to get the scar to fade, crying with that scrunched face. Thinks about Beau tracing it absentmindedly where it extends past her vestiges and down just to her stomach, raised and jagged, but thin. Healed.

Thinks about them piled together, weary and loose, in Jester’s old bed. Jester’s face pressed in Beau’s neck (and Beau waking up from the tickle of Jester’s jewelry), cold hands crowded over her rib cage. Protective, worried even in sleep.

Then, she thinks about Jester and her sleepy-cold hands crowding over the back of her own neck, where the charm was branded. Beau taking her hand, pressing it against the scar.

_See_ , she says in Yasha’s mind, voice a rough curl of exhaustion, _still alive._ She covers Yasha’s hand with her own, spreads her fingers wide so she can feel the jump of her skin with each heartbeat. The Beau in her mind is only slightly better at hiding her nerves, but it’s a heart rate just south of frenzied. _Still alive._

“Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> i promise i have like. one more of these in me before thursday and then it's back to the golden compass au (and the four essays i have to write for college)  
> the usual, come say hi @seafleece on tumblr


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